


Wish Upon a Star

by Gobetti



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Fluff, Foster Care, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-26
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/469104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gobetti/pseuds/Gobetti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If you ever see a shooting star... what would you wish for?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarvenrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarvenrot/gifts).



> A little something I made for Scavenrot on Tumblr! It's a one shot, but I plan on writing more, a lot more :)
> 
> Alternate Universe where SBURB never happened, Dave is fifteen and Cal isn't a creepy motherfucker, he's just a regular, glass eyed creepy looking ventriloquist doll. And a chill guy. The chillest.
> 
> I HAVE SO MANY HEADCANONS FOR THIS AU I WILL WRITE ABOUT IT SOON
> 
> EXPECT ME
> 
>  
> 
> \--

“Stargazing sure is amazing, eh, Cal?”

Cal’s head bobs to the side, leaning just a little closer to your shoulder, and you place his plush hand over your chest. You sigh, looking up at the stars in the dark night sky, and feel lucky for being able to live in this building, for having access to this roof, no matter how small and shitty your apartment is. There’s a reason you, Cal and Dave never moved out, even though you could afford buying a new condo with the money you earn on puppet porn alone. You faintly hear Cal talking to you, and you turn your head to him.

“Sorry lil’ dude, I didn’t catch that. Come again?”

You can feel him smiling.

_Have you ever seen a shooting star?_

“A shooting star?” you ask, crooking an eyebrow, and you look back up to the sky. You turn Cal’s head as well, because it wouldn’t be fair for him to miss how beautiful the night looks. “Not really. Why you ask?”

Cal hesitates. He may be a puppet, and he may not move on its own, or have organs or anything, and you may be the only one who can actually understand or hear him, but you can read him like a book. Not literally, of course; Cal’s face remains irresponsive, blank as it always is and as it ever was, but you can feel his tenseness the same way you can listen to his voice low and hesitant on the back of your head. Finally, after over half a minute, he mutters,

_No reason._

“Bullhshit. Something’s on your mind. Spill.” You say, trying not to sound rough or angry. Cal senses that it’s just your way of saying “I’m here for you, you can tell me anything”, so he remains quiet, pensive once again. You can’t hear Cal’s thoughts, just like he can’t hear yours, so you give him the silence he needs to gather his perturbed mind.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, he asks, _if you ever see a shooting star... what would you wish for?_

“You mean, assuming that shooting stars actually do grant wishes?” you ask, almost snorting, and you know Cal’s grimacing by the tone of his voice.

_Don’t mock me, man, come on. I’m serious._

“All right, all right. A wish, huh? Let’s see… hmm, well, I’d probably wish for Dave to grow up healthy and happy, y’know?”

Cal chuckles lightly. _That’s a really good wish, Dirk_ _,_ he says, sounding just a little sad. You turn to face him again, but he keeps staring at the sky.

“What about you? What would _you_ wish for?”

He hesitates.

_To be a real person._

You pause. Cal’s words had a tone of finality in them, and you feel your chest aching painfully. Sometimes you just... forget that Cal is a puppet, and that he probably would appreciate having a functioning body like yours. You think of a really good Pinocchio joke, but quickly discard it. You sense that this is a really touchy subject to him, and that you shouldn’t joke about it.

 A thought occurs to you.

“Would you do anything?”

_Huh?_

“I asked,” and you look back up to the night sky, focusing only in the stars and not in the fact that your heart is hammering away in your chest with nervousness. “Would you give anything to have that wish fulfilled?”

Cal stops. You sense he was about to answer you, but didn’t, waiting for what you _really_ have to say. You close your eyes.

“...would you give _me_ away?”

 _Life without you_ _,_ he starts, his head slightly bobbing to the side towards your own. He sounds pained and kind of hurt that you would even consider something like that, but you just had to know, you just had to, _wouldn’t be worth living. Puppet or human, Dirk_ _._ _I love you too much to be able to live a life like that. I’d rather disappear from the face of the Earth._

You shut your eyes tightly, swallowing a dry lump in your throat and turning towards Cal, pulling him to your chest and hugging him tightly.

 _I’d rather die_ _,_ he whispers, arms wrapped around you in a silent comfort.

You don’t say anything else. All of the sudden, words seem extremely inappropriate.

Instead, you silently hold him on the rooftop until the two of you fall asleep.

\--

“Dude. Dude, bro, wake up, wake the fuck up, bro, _shit!!!_ ”

“Stop talking or I’ll kick your nose in, lil’ dude.” you mutter, hiding your face on the crook of Cal’s neck. Dave downright _whimpers_ , but the humming of the air conditioning central unit hums lazily behind you, its shadow protecting you both from direct sunlight, and you feel so comfortable you decide to completely ignore him in favor of falling asleep again. It is, as usual, an extremely warm morning in Houston, and you’re kinda sweating because Cal is very warm in your arms... but you feel so content and relaxed and just so goddamn tired you decide to not get up or untangle yourself from him. Not yet, at least.

“Fuck, bro!” Dave exclaims, and you can feel his hands hovering over your shoulder, unsure of whether or not to touch you. “Could you just... oh my god Bro, at least let the kid go, for Christ’s sake, you’re traumatizing me! Do you really want to traumatize your younger brother? That shit just ain’t right man, think of your duty as a responsible guardian. Leave the traumatizing to the smuppets only, I mean, _Jesus_.”

**_...Wait._ **

“...kid?”

“What?” Dave asks, sounding annoyed and a little nervous.

“No, fuck, not you, Dave, you just said...” and you sit up, reluctantly untangling yourself from Cal, who falls to the floor with a loud _thud_.

_Wait._

**_Thud?!?!_ **

You open your eyes, wide as saucers, and look down at the floor.

_Oh my god._

“Dude, seriously now, if you want to hire twinks to fulfill your sexual desires for Cal, please, for the love of all that is holy, _please_ don’t bring them to our apartment. Rent a motel room somewhere, I’ll even give you the money for it if you don’t have any, I’ll do anything, just, _don’t,_ okay? Also I never thought I’d ever _ever_ have to say this to you, but you can’t have sex in the fucking roof, you idiot, people might see you!!! Do you want to get arrested? And what would Cal say? If he finds out he’ll be hella upset with you, man, though I can’t say I don’t understand where you’re coming from and all, but you gotta admit this is just borderline _creepy_ , dude--”

You don’t answer Dave; instead you allow him to rant away, because his words are giving your current situation a sense of reality. The kid which Dave was referring to, the one which you carelessly dropped to the floor, is squeezing his eyes and blinking up at the sky, blonde curly hair shining brightly and light blue eyes squinting up at the daylight. It takes him only five seconds to widen them in shock. Your breathing has accelerated to dangerous levels, but right now, you really don’t care.

His cheeks are red with blush, forming a perfect circle in each side of his face, and his lips are glossy with red lipstick. You can see thick, fake lashes on his eyelids, and white gloves on both his hands. He’s wearing a pair of white sneakers, a pinstripe orange suit with a basketball blue shirt on top of it and a gold chain hanging from his neck, the name “CAL” written across his chest. A grey cap, which seems to have slipped off his head, lies on the floor behind his head.

You stop breathing.

“...Bro? You okay?” Dave asks, bending a little to look at you as you stare into the eyes of the boy, still lying on the floor, moving his pupils frantically and blinking away. You’re probably pale as a ghost right now, and all the words flying madly through you head are getting stuck in the back of your throat.

“ _...Cal...?_ ” you finally whisper, scooting closer, moving gently as if you’re afraid to scare him away, but Cal shoots his pupils towards you as soon as you say his name, not moving a single muscle. Immediately he starts breathing rapidly and in short breaths, his lithe chest rising and falling in a worrisome speed. Hyperventilating. Dave looks frightened out of his mind.

You close the distance between the two of you, carefully picking him up and gathering him in your arms, holding his torso firmly against yours. “Shhhh, shh, calm down, calm down, oh my god, _Cal_...” you whisper over and over as you rock him in your lap, holding his head against your shoulder.

“...Bro?” Dave tries again, stepping closer, and when you look up at him you feel unironic tears sliding down your cheek, hot and warm and making your cheeks damp and your nose stuffy. Dave flinches at the sight of your red eyes and vulnerable expression, but eventually kneels next to you. You keep rocking the boy in your arms back and forth, back and forth. “Dude? Is this really... I mean, is this Lil’ Cal?” he asks, unsure and scared, and you bury your nose on Cal’s hair. _Shit_. The boy even _smells_ exactly like him. But what scares you the most is that he’s not moving, not talking, _nothing._ You’re not getting anything from this kid, except the movements of his chest as he breathes and the _thump thump thump_ of his desperate heart beating against yours. And _that’s it_.

“I don’t know...! I think it is, but...” you whimper, feeling another set of tears roll down your face. You cough and try to control your voice. “I don’t fucking know, okay, me and Cal were stargazing last night, and he talked about shooting stars and wanting to be human and I thought about Pinocchio and we fell asleep and next thing I know you woke me up, and I can’t...!” you say it all one single breath. Cool be damned, this is a critical situation, and being aloof and pretending not to give a shit isn’t something you can afford right now. You inhale shakily. “Cal, baby, I can’t hear you, dude, please talk to me, Cal, _please_ , oh my god, Cal...”

You feel Cal’s jaw moving weakly on your shoulder, and the sound of a wheezing breath comes out of his throat. You keep rocking him, rubbing his back as to try to comfort him, to calm him down.

“Yes, that’s it, baby, come on, talk to me, talk to me, please talk to me Cal, Cal, Cal, little man, bro, dude, please please _please_...”

You’re whining. You’re whining and there’s snot running from your nose, but you don’t care. You keep holding Cal as he wheezes again. Dave is silent, watching you with a pained expression, a comforting hand on your arm. You think that if he lets go of you you’ll break down in tiny little pieces impossible to mend. You’ve never been gladder for having your little bro.

The sixth time Cal breathes out you hear the faint reminder of a low, pained moan. You inhale sharply, stop moving and shut up, trying to listen to him.

He does it again. He’s right next to your ear, so you can hear him perfectly when he whispers, in a shaky, weak voice.

“... _D-Dirk_...”

You hide your face on his shoulder and cry.


	2. Your name is Caleb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your name used to be Caleb; your name now is Lil' Cal. You always hated that name when you were younger, but now...  
> Now you just wish you could forget all about ever being Caleb.
> 
>  
> 
> \--

Your name is Caleb, you’re two years old, and you haven’t seen your parents in a few days now.

But that’s okay, because you kind of know that adults sometimes like to spend time together alone, so they should totally do it. besides, they left you here in this huuuuge house, where there’s a lot of kids your own age, and lots of others who are way older than you, and these nice ladies that wear black dresses from head to toes, and they are all very nice to you.

You like it here, but you miss them a lot, too. You tell that to the sweet young woman that tucks you in at night, and her face goes pale.

She kisses your forehead and tells you to go to sleep.

So you do.

\--

Your name is Caleb, you’re four years old, and you don’t like these people.

It’s been two years since the last time you saw your mom and dad, and frankly, you’re really mad at them for leaving you. You told that to the old lady that gives you breakfast and she just smiled sadly, telling you that you’ll understand when you’re older.

Well, you _feel_ older. How old is _older,_ anyway?

But that’s beside the point. The point is that this weird couple picked you up at the house you were staying with all your friends and the kind ladies with black dresses and brought you over to their apartment. The place is cramped, the carpet feels weird under your toes and they’re way too obnoxious.

They also yell at each other every day, and you hate it. They curse all the time, too, even though you know for a fact that cursing is bad and that even adults shouldn’t do it. Your bed smells funny, and you can’t sleep well because they never turn off all the lights; they leave a lamp lit inside your bedroom, and the brightness hurts your eyes. When you tell the woman that, she chuckles and simply diminishes the light. She probably didn’t understand what you were asking. She’s really stupid, you decide, and you cover your face with your pillow.

After a week, they tell you to call them “mom” and “dad”. You widen your eyes with shock. You think they must be joking, but that’s not the case, because they look really serious. So you get serious, too. You tell them you can’t do that because you already have a mom and dad, _duh_ , and they’re not them. They frown, the woman almost bursts into tears, and the man tells you that your parents are dead.

You ask him what that means, and he tells you that they won’t come back to pick you up. _Ever_.

It’s the first time your heart seems to stop dead on its tracks.

Later that day, when they’re yelling and shouting again, you pick up a pamphlet that is sitting on the dinner table because it has a picture of the big house you were staying at. You walk out the door of the apartment, and immediately find a girl with a baby on her arms on the sidewalk. You lie; you tell her you got lost and that you wanna go back home, showing her the pamphlet. She takes you there, and when the lady that tucks you in bed shows up on the doorstep, you hug her knees, almost making her fall back, but you don’t care.

You don’t go back to that house again.

\--

Your name is Caleb, you’re ten years old, and you’re getting sick and tired of this bullshit.

Most of the friends you used to have when you were younger are now gone, especially the older ones who already turned eighteen. Now you understand your situation; you know your parents are dead, they died when you were two, and though you know they didn’t commit suicide or anything, you still hate them for it.

The nuns that take care of the orphanage are not as kind to you anymore, mostly because you’re always sad or angry at something or someone. The kids pick on you because you’re short and skinny, and the nicknames vary between Lil’ Caleby and Lil’ Cal to pimpsqeak and freaky eyes, because your eyes are bigger than everyone else’s. Miss Lavender picks you up and tells you that they’re different, and that makes you special. You personally think they look really cool.

The kids can call you whatever they want; you don’t care anyway.

Well. Maybe just a little.

You ‘re lying in your bed, belly down. Your ass stings, even after the nuns covered it up with bandages and a funny smelling ointment. You just came back from the fourth house you’ve been placed in ever since the first one. That last one, though, was the worst one yet by far. The “dad” was a fat pig who reeked of sweat and beer, the “mom” was a sad looking woman who seemed to be constantly tired and revolted, and they had five. Freaking. Kids.

And of course they were all a reflection of those two assholes. The younger girl was seven, and she hated you for having wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes, unlike her, who had curly black hair and dark brown eyes. You thought she was pretty, and you even told her that once, but she thought you were mocking her and she got even madder at you. She pushed you around and pulled your hair and spat on you whenever she crossed eyes with you. The other four kids were rude and cocky boys much older than you, and they all picked on you all the freaking time because, apparently, you look like a girl.

You just wanted to punch them, and you would have, if you weren’t so damn scared of them, with their muscled arms and gangly limps and foul mouths and you just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

The night you tried sneaking away, just like you did with all the other families, the fat man saw you and got mad. _Really_ mad. He pulled you by the collar of your shirt, making you gag and suffocating you a little, and decided to teach you a lesson. With his leather belt.

You screamed your lungs out, in hopes that someone would hear, and thirty minutes later, you were still on the man’s lap, pants down, belt going at it, when the police burst through the door.

And now you’re _here_ again.

You used to like this house, but not anymore. You know that the longer you stay here, the greater the possibility that they’ll shove you into some other foster home.

And like hell you’re going down without a fight next time.

\--

Your name is Caleb, you’re thirteen, and you haven’t been picked for a new foster home ever since the last one.

Good. You couldn’t be happier, really.

Today, the nuns are taking you to a small visitation trip, and you all went to the old theater, where an old guy sitting on a wooden stool makes jokes with a wooden puppet perched on his lap. Miss Lavender explains that he does this trick where he talks with his mouth closed to make it seem like it’s the puppet who’s talking instead of him, and though you don’t let it show, you find it hella fascinating.

After the show is over and everyone’s leaving the theater, the nuns are distracted with the younger boys, who are crying and running about, so you take the opportunity to duck under the chairs of the theater and crawl your way out through the back door. Once you’re out you see a car with the trunk open, and you realize it must be the puppeteer’s car, because there’s about four or five weird looking puppets inside. You don’t even think twice. You jump inside, hiding yourself beneath the puppets, and the trunk is closed not a second later. The car starts moving, and you breathe out with relief.

Free, at last.

You fall asleep in no time, but realize that was probably a mistake. Next thing you know, the old guy is popping the trunk open and looking at you with wide eyes. He shouts, because apparently you broke the arm of one of his puppets, but you’re too groggy with sleep to comprehend what he’s saying. When you don’t respond, he yanks you up by your shoulder, and you yell, apologizing, telling him that it hurts, asking him to let go of you. He ignores you, pulls you towards a small wooden cottage and opens its door.

Your blood goes cold.

You’re now inside a dark, stifling room filled with puppets, puppets of all sizes, color and shapes, made of wood, made of plush, wearing dresses and glasses and whatever else you can think of. You normally don’t think puppets are scary, but these... _things_... they’re _frightening_. They look real, somehow. The sight of those dead eyes staring at you sends shivers down your spine, and you restart your struggle with the old guy, trying to pry his hand away.

He throws you to the floor and bangs the door closed.

“You have big, blue eyes, kid.” He says, voice low and raspy, and the room is now at least ten times creepier. You’re hyperventilating, scrambling away on all fours, hands and knees scraping away on the dirty floor until you hit a wall. You whimper.

“They’re _perfect_.”

You’ve gotten a lot of adjectives to describe your eyes over the years: huge, golf balls, beautiful, bright, mesmerizing, different, wonderful, freaky; but never _perfect_. It makes them seem like something _useful_.

You shiver and hide you face in your knees. You’re crying; sobbing, even. You don’t want him to see you, because big boys like you shouldn’t cry, and you know that, but you honestly can’t help it.

You feel a needle on the side of your neck a second too late.

When you wake up, it takes you an entire minute to realize that you’re hanging on the wall, next to the other puppets. You can’t move, you can’t talk, you can’t breathe. You can’t even hear your heart beating inside your chest. In a terrifying thought, you wonder if there even _is_ a heart inside you.

The old man is working on a table in the room, head bowed down, and he’s fixing the arm of the puppet you broke. He hums away a song that you don’t recognize.

You try not to freak out.

You fail miserably.

\--

Your name is Caleb, and you don’t know how old you are anymore.

You do, somehow, still remember the year were born in, and that you were thirteen the year you “died”, but you’ve lost count of how long it’s been since then.

Time is hard to keep track of when you’re stuck inside a windowless room day after day after agonizing day.

Eventually, though, you realize the puppeteer can hear you when you talk to yourself, because he comes up to your face and yells at you, fucking shouts, droplets of his nasty spit falling all over your cheeks as he complains about how loud and nagging you are, whining and crying all day long, _every fucking day_. He said he thought you’d be over it by now, but apparently he thought wrong.

He yanks you off the wall and walks out of the house. The sudden light startles you, but doesn’t hurt your eyes like it damn well should. He throws you on the back of his car and drives off, grumbling and muttering under his breath. Eventually he ends up dumping you in front of a door you don’t recognize, and the next morning, when the sun’s barely peeking out from behind the trees, a young man opens the door, picks you up and brings you inside.

You’re in a toy shop.

You cry your eyes out, even though your expression remains the same, even though no tears run down your cheeks.

\--

Your name is Caleb, you’re fifteen years old, and you’re tired.

There’s a calendar hanging in your field of view, and you wish there wasn’t. Turns out it’s much, much worse to see the months passing by while you hang on this godforsaken shelf than to not feel them go by at all.

You’re so, so, so tired.

It’s December of 1978. A little boy walks in the shop, accompanied by a young nun, and if you only could, you would’ve puked.

It’s Miss Lavender.

The blond haired boy drags the woman around the shop by her wrist, looking excited and poking a few stuffed toys on the shelves. She scolds him, tells him that that’s not an appropriate gift for a boy, and that he must pick something else instead. He frowns, turns around, looks up.

He widens his eyes.

**_Help me._ **

“Miss Lavender, Miss Lavender!” he exclaims almost desperately, jumping up and down and making grabby hands at you. “I want this one!!”

You widen your eyes. Metaphorically, of course.

She picks you up and examines you, decides you’re no good, thinks you’re too freaky looking, and your chest hurt as if someone stabbed it. The boy is having none of it, though; he pulls you out of her grasp by your leg and hugs you to his chest as tightly as his little arms can muster. He doesn’t change his mind nor does he lets you go, not even for a second. In the end, Miss Lavender gives up and checks out with the cashier.

When she’s out of his line of sight, the boy looks down at you, looking worried.

“Did you talk to me?” he asks.

 _I guess I did?_ You say, sounding unsure, and he presses his lips together until they’re white.

“Okay. Just checkin’.”

On the car ride back to the orphanage, the boy holds you gingerly on his lap on the back seat.

“I don’t know how I can help you…” he whispers. “But I can be your friend if you’d like. Do you have any friends?”

 _No,_ you say, sadly. _Not anymore, at least._

He smiles.

“Then I’ll be your friend! Maybe that helps?”

You wish you could smile.

You wish you could cry.

You wish you could hug him.

_Okay._

You really, really, really wish you could _die_.

\-- __

Your name is Caleb, and according to your math, you’re twenty-one years old, though you still feel like that thirteen years old boy from so many years ago.

You’ve been with Dirk every day ever since the day he picked you up at the toy shop. He carries you around, always careful not to drag your limbs on the floor or drop you our say anything hurtful on purpose. He tells you all his secrets, all his fears, huddles up with you beneath the covers at night as he goes to sleep. He considers you his best friend.

You do, too.

It’s his ninth birthday, and he brought a slice of cake back to his room so he could share it with you. He places the pastry on your wooden mouth and moves your jaw with his chubby pale fingers, making you chew it. You can’t taste it, of course, and you tell him so. He looks sad for a second before smiling a little again.

“Miss Lavender always tells me it’s the thought that counts.”

He wipes your face with a damp cloth afterwards as he shows you the new pair of pointy sunglasses he got from Miss Lavender. He puts them on and asks you how he looks, and you tell him he looks so cool you can feel a chill running down your spine. He chuckles and tucks you in the bed next to him after he’s eaten the rest of the cake he brought. He falls asleep not much later.

You don’t feel like dying or crying anymore.

You’re happy because you made Dirk happy, and right now, that’s all that matters.

You wonder for how long this friendship will last.

You kind of hope on “forever”.


	3. Talk to me, love

You start out slow.

Dave rubs your arm some more, trying to calm you down, and you loosen your grip on the boy in your arms, shaking. He breathes out, coughing weakly, and his voice sounds hoarse and scratchy, as if he hasn’t used it in ages. It doesn’t make much sense to you, because you two talk every day, and yet...

You gather your pokerface (or at least whatever’s left of it, which obviously isn’t much), place Cal’s cap back on his head and pick him up in your arms bridal style. You ask Dave to take your sunglasses with him and he follows you back to the trap door to your apartment.

Once inside, you settle Cal on the futon, taking care that he’s sitting up straight and that he doesn’t look uncomfortable or anything. His head sags back, but his pupils move so that he’s looking right at you. Dave hands you your sunglasses and you immediately put them on.

Much better.

“Okay. So what the fuck just happened?”

Cal’s jaw barely even move; his lips part ever so slightly and you see his throat shaking with the effort he’s making to talk. Dave walks away into the hallway; you let him, but only because you know that the only reason you’re not flipping out is because Cal needs you right now.

And if you’re honest, you need him, too.

“I... don’t... know...” he rasps out, tongue darting out to lick his glossy lips. He blinks hard and tries moving his jaw some more. “Can’t... move... throat... hur... ts...”

“Shit.” You mutter, running your hand through your hair and knocking your cap to the floor (how it survived the night in your head is a wonder; sometimes you think it’s glued to your head or something). “Shit, okay. Fuck.”

You have no idea what to do or say right now.

Everything’s happening too fast, too out of the sudden, and it’s almost too much for you to handle. You turn around and sit down next to him. He sags a little to the side, like he always does when you’re so close to each other, and his head falls neatly over your broad shoulder. You wrap an arm around him.

“We’ll figure this shit out together, okay lil’ man? It’s chill. Everything’s gonna be all right.” You tell him, but it’s almost like you’re trying to assure yourself and not him.

Dave comes back not much later, and you’re kinda stunned because you swore he had locked himself up in his bedroom as soon as he left. He’s holding a damp cotton ball and a piece of toilet paper in each hand, and his poker face is unreadable. You raise an inquiring eyebrow at him, but he just shrugs and kneels right in front of Cal, scrubbing the lipstick off his lips with the paper and the blush off his cheeks with the heel of his hand. Once that’s taken care of he then proceeds to remove the fake lashes and mascara with the cotton on his other hand, and you watch as he does it all with the utmost care in the world.

“You looked kind of ridiculous with all that shit on his face, now that you’re... you know.” He whispers, looking down at Cal’s relatively clean face. Cal doesn’t smile, but he does open his mouth a little and whispers, weakly,

“Thank... you.”

\--

First thing you do is call in sick to work.

They’ll survive a night (or a few) without your awesome DJing skills.

After Dave goes to school, you rush to Google for comfort – bless you Google, you life savior – and soon you have printed out a wide list of all kinds of physiotherapy exercises that are supposed to help Cal regain strength in his sore muscles. You take his gloved hand in yours and bend his fingers, twirl his wrist, fold his arm. Repeat, repeat, repeat. You do that to his entire body for two hours. He tells you that he actually feels everything, the firm pressure and the warmth of your hand everywhere you touch him, and he can actually send some sort of signal to his limbs – you see his toes twitch every now and then – but it’s like his limbs just doesn’t obey him. Like he’s trapped in his own body.

“I feel like I’m still a puppet.” He says, his voice now steadier after a glass of water and a few careful massages on his throat. He looks down at his right hand as you work on his left elbow, furrowing his brows in concentration, but he doesn’t manage much besides making his fingers spasm weirdly. “Damn.”

“Well, you can sort of move them, see.” You say, trying to sound encouraging. “Maybe it’ll take some time, but we’ll get there.”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, looking disappointed and worried. You bring your attention back to the joint beneath your hand (damn, it feels weird to not feel the plush of his limp arm anymore) and you hold the urge to bite your bottom lip in thought.

“Hey, Cal?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes turn to you.

“...so you weren’t always a puppet?”

He stops, face blank, and turns his eyes to his lap.

“No. Not really.” He whispers, voice cracking a bit. You look back at his arm, now focusing on moving his shoulder, allowing him to talk at his own pace. “I never told you because I didn’t... I was afraid that if I told you, you’d do the possible and the impossible to find the guy who changed me and force him to change me back. But I...” and he pauses, eyes watering a bit. Your hand stills on his shoulder. “I didn’t wanna risk getting you worried about me. I had already accepted my fate. I was happy being with you, even if I was just a lifeless puppet.”

“You weren’t lifeless.” You say, twirling his shoulder again. “You had as much life then as you do now, and fuck what everyone else thought. I just... I assumed you were always a puppet because you never mentioned family or anything.”

“I don’t have a family.” Cal says, and your heart cracks into a thousand little pieces. “I’m an orphan, like you. What happened is that I got sick and tired of the system and ran away. Lucky for me, I ended up in Geppetto’s evil twin’s house, and you probably know what happened next.” He chuckles lightly, but it’s so sad your throat clenches, and you sit up on the couch, moving your hands to his neck and jaw instead. He closes his eyes and hums gratefully as you twirl his head around. “I used to regret it. Running away, I mean. If I hadn’t ran away, I wouldn’t have become... what I was. But...”

You stop your ministrations as soon as Cal opens his eyes and look directly into yours. He smiles.

“If that had never happened, I would have never met you. So I don’t regret it anymore. I haven’t in a really long time.”

“...how old are you?” you ask almost automatically, but before you can apologize and take it back, Cal actually answers you.

“Let’s see, ummmm... I was born in 63, so that makes me... forty-six?”

“Christ.” You mutter, cupping his cheek. “But you look younger than Dave! Forty-six, what the hell does that even mean?!”

“I was thirteen when I ran.” He explains, and you frown. “I think I must’ve stopped in time, since my body wouldn’t age. Does that make sense?”

Thirteen.

Thirteen, you think. A prepubescent little boy.

“Dirk, calm down. Calm down, stop freaking out, dude.”

“Freaking out who said anything about freaking out?” you say a little too fast, and Cal chuckles a breathy and carefree laugh. _God_. Despite everything, it feels damn good to hear his unique laughter so close to you, his breath ghosting against your face inches away from his, instead of merely listening to it somewhere deep inside your mind.

 “Of course you are. I know you since forever, you can’t hide anything from me.”

You smile up at him, and he smiles back to the best of his abilities. And suddenly, he yawns.

“Oh.” He says, looking... shocked. “Oh, gosh. I think... I’m tired?” then he looks at you, laughing again and widening his grin. It’s so endearing you have to hold yourself not to tackle-hug the shit out of him. “Hehe haha hoo! I’m tired, Dirk! Oh my god!”

 “It sure seems like it, lil’ man.”

“Oh, god. I don’t, _didn’t_... I can actually... oh, _wow_.”

“No more talking.” And you climb up to the couch, cradling his small and pale body against yours. He doesn’t shift, and how much of a living puppet he feels with his limp limbs and pliant body is enough to make you feel a bit more comfortable with his presence, even though you’re generally still feeling a little tense and on the edge around him. It all kind of makes you feel dizzy and a little disoriented. “Let’s get some rest, shall we?”

He hums happily, closing his big, blue eyes all on his own even as you reach forward to shift his eye lids down. You pull your gloved hand back awkwardly and rest it on his lower back, placing the other on his hair. You shift ‘till you’re comfortable, fixing Cal on top of you until he’s properly splayed out over your broad chest, covering you up like a warm blanket, and you realize, with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, that you can feel his heartbeat thrumming lowly against your own.

It feels fucking amazing.

You gently scratch his scalp and lull him to sleep.

\--

“Dirk! Dirk, wake up!”

You open your eyes warily, feeling tired and sluggish. There’s a giddy child trying to wake you up, and it takes you five whole seconds to remember that it’s Cal and that holy shit _he’s shaking you awake!!!_

You sit up and look to the side, where he’s kneeling on the futon. He’s got a jaw splitting smile on his face and he’s holding your muscled arm firmly, shaking you back and forth.

“I can move! I can totally move, Hee haa hoo!!!” he laughs, happier than you’ve ever heard him, and hesitation be damned, you hug him close and hide your face in his hair, letting out a heavy sigh of relief.

Immediately his short little arms shoot around you and cling to the white polo on your back. You’re used to Cal returning your hugs, sure, but not to the feeling of his tiny little fingers squeezing you tightly, his cute and soft giggle on your shoulder, and you swear you can feel warm tears on your skin. His warm breath sends tingles down your spine and you feel as happy as you did when Dave graduated from primary school and hugged your legs, wearing that cutesy little robe.

You have no idea for how long you stay like that, just holding each other, but you swear it could’ve been forever and you wouldn’t have noticed. You close your eyes and bask in Cal’s scent; he still smells like wood, plush and musk. He breathes deeply every now and then, moaning when he exhales, and you swear this is not the time to be thinking sexy thoughts. Almost as if on cue, he shifts on the couch, arms still locked around your neck, and plops himself down on your lap. Cal’s legs encircle your waist, and you whine a little.

“You’re so silly.” He chuckles happily, and you raise an inquiring eyebrow, though he still can’t see it, face still hidden in your shoulder.

“I’m _silly_?”

“Yeah! I’m still your Cal, silly. I’m still the same dude you’ve known since you were three, you know. And I still love you.”

You sigh, humming, and he tenses in your arms.

“Do... do you still love me? Now that I’m...”

“I love you.” And you say it without hesitation, without a hint of guilt or second thought to your words. “I love you, little dude. You and Dave are my reason for living. That’s a fact of life as solid as breathing, and nothing will ever change it.”

Cal smiles against your now warm and slightly damp skin before pulling back to look at you. He reaches for your shades and gently pulls them off your face, hanging them on the front of your shirt.

You feel your pokerface melting away once again as you watch him watch you; you’ve already done it so many times in so little time you’re amazed your face doesn’t hurt from all the work your muscles are doing after left so long unused. His blue eyes scan your face and his smile wanes a little, becomes softer, gentler. And when Cal leans in closer, touches noses with you, nuzzles your face sweetly, your heart hammers away in your chest. The touch is, at the same time, familiar and completely foreign to you. Instead of the smooth and lukewarm wood, you’re met with soft, pulse thrumming skin. Instead of pliant and delicate fabric, you’re met with thin and fragile arms. And instead of glassy eyes, you see lively blue pupils, which shine and glimmer with the life behind them.

Not that Cal’s puppet eyes never gave you that same feel, but now...

You can see how they gleam with shed and unshed tears, how they frantically search for your own eyes, how they irradiate his feelings, how now you can actually _see_ everything that you only ever _felt_ from Cal.

But what strikes you the most is when he leans in and kisses you.

Immediately you jump beneath your skin, scared, thinking that this is not Cal and that this is wrong, but then he parts his lips and slides his tongue against your lip, and

Ah.

You dive into his mouth, holding the back of his had with both hands, and he whines happily, allowing you to push him back and ravish him.

You can’t feel them anymore; the mechanisms on the back of his head, that is. But, somehow, you can _taste_ them. It’s a little different, though; everything’s mixed with something else, something that feels awfully strange and organic, but that still tastes like Cal, and when he pushes back, hands tightening their hold to your shoulders only to slide up to cup your face, gently, tenderly...

“Cal...” you whisper when you pull back for air, delivering butterfly kisses all over his face, and you taste the salty tang of fresh tears on his cheeks. You wipe them away with your thumb before going back to his lips, and instead of diving in like a man hungry for water, you gently press against him, trying to translate all your happiness in your kiss, fingers threading gently in his hair while the other cups his tear stained cheek.

When you pull back, you touch foreheads, smiling like the little kids you are.

Not a minute later, Dave opens the door to the apartment, a pizza box on his hand and three Happy Meals perched on top of it.

“Hey.” He says, almost nonchalantly, and you two pull back, smiling at Dave. He pauses for a second, raising a single brow at the sight of Cal actually moving for himself, but shrugs and resumes walking, closing the door behind him on his way. He throws his backpack to the floor and pulls out a three liters bottle of coke out of it. “You guys hungry? ‘Cause I figured we got some shit to celebrate tonight.”

You two just couldn’t agree more.


	4. What is the real meaning of 'family' anyway?

Your name is Dirk. The ladies in the house, though, seem to forget of that fact every now and then; they call you “Dirky”, “sweetie”, “darling”. It bothers you to no end. You hate it, and yet, they barely ever seem to notice.

One day, one of the youngest ladies picks you up and calls you “honey”. You cringe.

“My name’s Dirk, not ‘honey’. I don’t even like honey.” You say, wrinkling your nose, and she smiles sweetly at you.

“Well, Dirk, it is very nice to meet you. I’m miss Lavender.” She says, fixing you up on her arm and carrying you to your bedroom. “And that’s silly, honey is delicious.”

“No it’s not. It’s too sweet and it makes my mouth sticky.”

“Well, what about I pour it into warm milk? Then it wouldn’t be too sweet nor too sticky. Does that sound good, Dirk?”

You take a moment to ponder, and she places you on your mattress just as you’re nodding and saying “Okay”.

She comes back ten minutes later with a tall glass of deliciously warm milk sweetened with honey. You down it all in one go and earn an awesome looking white moustache. She giggles as you lick it up, and you smile up at her. She whispers “good night, Dirk,” and you reply “good night miss Lavender” just as the door is sliding shut.

You decide you really like her.

 

\--

 

Your name is Dirk, and today is your birthday. You know you’ve had two other before this one, but frankly you don’t remember much from when you were younger. Miss Lavender takes you by your hand and walks out of the orphanage, taking you to an old and rusty car and she drives you two to somewhere special. She doesn’t say where, but you’re awfully excited.

When she stops before a huge and colorful toy shop, you’re literally bouncing off your seat. She laughs as she unbuckles your seatbelt.

“Now, now, Dirk, careful there. Don’t wanna stress out your young little heart, now do we?” she coos, and as soon as you’re free, you hold her hand tightly and you two walk together into the toy shop.

You know she’s not your mom, but you know she’s not your sister or aunt or your grandma or anything like that; you don’t really know just _what_ to call her, but you’re not fond of labels anyway, so you just say that she’s “miss Lavender”, and when she smiles fondly at the sound of her name you decide that it’s all that matters to you. You know that you don’t have parents though, and that none of your other friends do either, and that you’ll be staying in that house you currently live in until a nice couple picks you and takes you to their home and become your mommy and daddy. You honestly can’t wait for that day to come, especially because you hate sharing your room with ten other boys – they all talk during nap time, and that’s really annoying and it makes you extra tired in the morning – though you’ll be really sad to part ways with miss Lavender. She’s really cool.

She lets you go once you’re inside and allows you to skip and wander around, eyeing the stuffed toys and dolls and colorful boxes carefully. She tells you to choose wisely, and that she’ll try to buy whatever it is that you pick. You know that no one in the house owns a big and fancy toy, like perhaps a princess castle or a car track or one of those tall rockets where you can sit inside and pretend you’re going to the moon, but you suspect there’s a reason for that, and you try to pick something small and simple. You don’t want anyone playing with your new toy, after all, and if you decide to get something that will make everyone else’s eyes glimmer with envy you won’t have peace anytime soon.

You’re eyeing a few pink unicorns thoughtfully – Miss Lavender scolds you, something about it being a girl’s toy – when you glance at a wooden faced puppet for a fraction of a second.

It’s all it takes, though.

**_Help me_ ** **.**

Your eyes go wide as a couple of saucers, you’re sure of it, and you look up at said puppet. It hangs on the top of a shelf, his limp limbs and his glassy eyes looking almost melancholic.

The doll just _talked_. You’re pretty sure miss Lavender didn’t hear him, so somehow you know that the reason you heard him means that he’s all yours and that you’re all his.

“Miss Lavender, Miss Lavender!” you shout, trying to reach it, but it’s too far away. “I want this one!”

She grimaces, but you keep your eyes focused on him, even after she picks him up and looks directly at his face.

“You sure, Dirk? He looks a little... creepy. Don’t you want anything else?”

“No!” and you yank him down by his leg, catching Miss Lavender by surprise. She yelps as the doll slips from her grip and falls directly onto your arms. You gather his plush body onto your arms and press it against your chest. “I like him, I want him. You said I could pick anything I wanted, so there.”

“Well...”she whispers, and the owner of the toy shop approaches her. They exchange a few hushed words and you rest your head over the grey cap he’s wearing. You can _feel_ his heart beating fast, though not really against your chest. You can sense his anxiousness, his fear, his apprehension. You’re scared for him. You want to protect him. You want to keep him.

Somehow, you feel like you’ve know him your entire life.

Back at the orphanage, you play with him all day long. He’s awfully quiet, but you do most of the talking for him, and you know he doesn’t mind.

At night, you curl up in your bed with him and cover you both up with your blanket. He seems calmer, though still uneasy.

“What’s your name?” you ask, decided into breaking the tension between the two of you, and it takes a few minutes for him to answer.

 _... Lil’ Cal._ He finally says, all hesitant and unsure, and you smile.

“That’s a pretty rad name, dude,” you tell him, and you feel the slightest of grins ghosting upon his fake wooden mouth.

_I guess._

 

 --

 

Your name is Dirk, you’re six years old, and man, _fuck everyone_.

You know you’re not supposed to say stuff like that, because God will get mad at you, but you know what, fuck him, too. Fuck everything, man. This shit ain’t cool.

The day of your adoption arrived barely a week after your sixth birthday, and though you were really excited and thrilled to go with your new family, you _hate_ it.

These people are cold and distant, rarely ever home and, what’s worse, they complain all the time about Lil Cal. They dislike him, much like everyone else – you swear you don’t know why, Cal’s a really sweet dude – and they keep trying to peel him away from you.

You fear what they might do to him if they manage to take him away, so you don’t let him go. Ever. You take him everywhere with you, even your bath, because the last time you left him in your bedroom while your “mom” bathed you, you heard Cal screaming desperately on the bedroom. You dashed out of the bathroom, water and soap covering anywhere you went, and you tried to pry Cal away from your father’s hands, screaming and kicking and snarling at him to just _let him go_.

They say they’re not t going to do anything to him, but you know they’re lying. Adults think kids are stupid.

Miss Lavender never thought you were stupid, you think bitterly to yourself.

You’ve been here for a month now, but you’re barely able to sleep anymore. You can’t sleep when they’re home; if you sleep, they’ll take him away from you while you’re unconscious. Sometimes they don’t come home at night, but that’s rare, so you try sleeping during the day, but the nanny rarely ever lets you, says that nighttime is time for sleeping, and you’re so, so tired.

One day, a woman comes in and greets you. You’re sitting next to both your parents on the couch and you’re hugging Cal, though not as tightly as you’d wish. You’re too exhausted for that. Something nudges you on the arm.

“Sweetie, the social worker is talking to you.” Your “mom” says. You almost want to not answer her because _fuck you_ , your name is _not_ sweetie, but instead you look up, mouth and eyes half open, your movements and thoughts lethargic as hell. A tall woman with short hair is looking down at you expectantly.

“Sorry, what?” you mumble groggily and she smiles.

“I was just asking you if you’re happy with your family, darling.”

_Darling._

Ugh.

“Mnn...” you grunt, trying to come up with the right words, and your “dad” laughs loudly, patting you in your back way too hard, making you hit your forehead against Cal’s head. He says _ow_ , and you mumble an apology under your breath.

“’F course he is! Arentcha, doll?” he exclaims, sounding nervous and fake, and you look numbly at the carpeted floor.

“I... miss Aunt Lav’nder.” You finally manage to croak out, throat dry as fat tears spill from your eyes. “And I dun’ like it here. Cal dosn’ either, he’s scared all th’ time. It’s not cool.”

“Cal?” the woman asks, and your “mom” stutters.

“His ventriloquist doll. It’s the only thing he brought with him from the orphanage, and frankly, it makes me and my husband uneasy. We’ve tried getting rid of it, but he just won’t let it go.”

Your head bobs down even further, until your chin is touching your chest, and you remember all the times they said they weren’t going to throw him away when you weren’t looking. You faintly wonder if they think you can’t hear or understand them. You’re right next to them, for Christ’s sake.

“But he seems rather fond of the doll.” The woman points out. “Why would you make him part with a dear object? What if it’s his crutch? What if he considers the doll a good friend?”

“He can’t be friends with a doll!” your “dad” exclaims. “He’s a boy! That’s not a proper toy for a boy a t all!”

“Besides, he won’t be able to make any friends if he keeps all his time and attention on the creepy doll.” Your “mom” says, and Cal cringes on your lap. “He has to let it go eventually, so it’s better sooner than later, right?”

“Dirk?” the woman says, and you look up at her. “What’s wrong?”

“N’uthing, I just... I didn’t sleep.”

She widens her eyes, and your “parents” shift nervously beside you. “Why not?”

“I think that’s enough questions, don’t you? You’re making him uncomfortable. Isn’t she, sweetie?”

“I’m _Dirk_.” You retort, your voice hard and louder, and she winces. God, you’re so mad and so tired and just... _fuck everything_. “I’m not ‘sweetie’, I’m not ‘darling’, I’m _Dirk!!_ ”

“That’s no way to talk to your mother, young man!” your “dad” shouts, and you close your eyes.

“Dirk!! My name is _Dirk_!! And _his_ name is Lil’ Cal, not _puppet_ , not _creepy_ , not stupid or silly or childish! And I’ve been up all night because they’ll take Cal away from me when I’m not looking! And I know that because they always sneak into my room to check if I’m asleep!”

The social worker looks shocked.

“W-we try telling him to go to sleep, but he wakes up as soon as we try taking the doll away from him.” The woman says, sounding tired and nervous. “He wakes up, grabs the doll, and if we don’t let it go, he starts screaming. It’s terrible, but we’re working on it.”

“Yes, and as soon as the doll’s gone, we’re sure his behavior will improve.”

“Gone?!” the woman says loudly. “He obviously holds this doll dearly to his heart, and you’re still insisting in getting rid of it? What if the doll was one of his only friends during his time on the orphanage? You can’t just get rid of it like that! It’s obviously perturbing the boy, can’t you see?”

“Well, can’t _you_ see that it’s perturbing us a lot more?!” the woman shrieks, and you close your eyes tightly, trying to tune the discussion out. “This is absurd, this kid has been nothing but impolite and rebellious ever since he got here, why are _we_ the ones to blame?!”

Honestly, you don’t remember much of the rest of the conversation. All you know is that you must’ve fallen asleep, because when you open your eyes, you’re not in your bedroom anymore.

You never see those people who tried to be your parents again, and you hope you and Cal have better luck next time.

You hope there will be a next time.

 

\--

 

Your name is Dirk, you are nine years old, and Miss Lavender just got you a sweet ass pair of rad shades.

She always gives you the best gifts.

“Here you go, sweetie.” She says, handing you the black case, and when you pop it open, the dark shades glimmer, reflecting your round and freckle riddled face. You widen your eyes. “I hope you like these.”

Immediately you put them on, darkening the room around you, and you stare into a nearby mirror.

So. Cool.

Back in your bedroom, you immediately show your new shades to Cal, and he totally agrees that they’re fucking awesome and that they make you look like the sweetest motherfucker ever.

Three years later and you’re still wearing your shades. They’ve become some sort of protection for you, shielding you from the outer world.

It’s when you turn thirteen when you’re at your most vulnerable phase, though. You and Cal went through three other foster homes by now, but none of them worked out. Nobody really understood – or rather, understands – your relationship with Cal.

But you’d rather lose a thousand families before letting Cal go.

So far, Cal’s been your best friend ever. The closest of pals. The sweetest of bros. you never really minded that he was a puppet or that people shot you nasty sideway glances whenever you held him close to your chest and hummed him lullabies when he was feeling particularly down. All it mattered is that you knew he’d always be by your side, and you’d always be by his.

But lately you’ve been growing at an alarming speed, and shit’s scary. Thin, blond hair is growing in places you never even knew it could grow, and all your clothes have to be replaced every three months because, suddenly, they just don’t fit you anymore.

And then there’s everything else that, apparently, comes with puberty.

Miss Lavender talks to you alone and explains, albeit a bit awkwardly, exactly what puberty ensues, and how your body will react differently to certain situations from now on, and that everything is completely and utterly normal. You hug Cal tightly and curse her in your mind. Stupid bitch. You don’t think she’s a stupid bitch, though; you actually really _really_ like her, but at this moment it seems appropriate to just badmouth her. She sees you the next day, you brows creased with unknown annoyance, and smiles knowingly, saying that extreme mood swings are also common and that you shouldn’t worry.

Cal worries just as much as you do, though.

The first time you wake up from a wet dream, you sit up, your boxers feeling impossibly tight and your loins on fire. The front of the fabric beneath your pajama pants is wet, sticky with a transparent fluid, and it almost scares you – _almost_ , because Cal says that it must be part of the whole growing up thing, being the rational guy in the relationship whenever you lose your cool like that, and he tells you that you probably should just... follow your instincts.

“Instincts?” you ask him in a whisper, not freaking out but almost there, and you hide yourself beneath your sheets so the other boys won’t listen to you. “The hell you mean by that?!”

 _Just do whatever feels right? I don’t know, I’m just a puppet, remember?_ He answers, almost bittersweet, and you look down straight at your painfully hard erection. _Maybe you can try to sleep again?_ __

“I can’t sleep. I never felt more awake in my life, I... fuck, I had a dream about... about a freaking horse! And it threw me to the floor with its snout and it kneeled on top of me, and I... I was scared it would trample me so I woke up.”

_And how did you feel about it trapping you? Besides being scared shitless._

“I...” you begin, but your dick suddenly twitches inside your boxers as you recall the wild and crazy dream you just had. You reach down to hold it in place, maybe if you squeeze it it’ll stop doing what it’s doing, and... god, you feel warm all over. The tip of your fingers feel magic, as if they’ve lit up with energy, and you let out a quiet moan. Cal seems worried.

 _You okay Dirk?_ He asks, and you nod, gasping.

“Yeah, yeah, I... _fffuck_...”

You realize that sliding your hand over your dick feels... _weird_. It feels hella weird, because that part of your body feels extremely sensitive all of the sudden, and it’s as if every nerve in your body is burning up, as if they were dormant all these years and only now they’ve woken up. Your heart flutters in your chest, your breathing becomes rapid and hitched, and all of the sudden, it all builds up, and all you can think about is the muscle twitching in your palm, your fingers wrapped tightly around it as you slide the shaft up and down over the smooth head of your penis.

Only a minute later and you’re screaming into your pillow, biting the fabric, panting and breathing hard. You faintly realize Cal is talking to you.

_Dirk oh Jesus dick Dirk you okay oh my god what just happened?!_

“I... don’t know.” You say, looking down. There’s a white, sticky and smelly substance all over your hand and the mattress. Your dick is still in full mast, but it doesn’t burn or ache anymore. You feel exhausted. “But... but I think I can sleep now.”

The next day, you talk to the older boys, and they explain to you what exactly went down the day night before. Immediately you pass the word to Cal, who feels embarrassed for intruding in something as personal as masturbating, but you just wave your head and shrug.

“No worries, man. I mean, I don’t mind that you were there with me. You actually helped me not flip my shit, so there. Thanks for that, by the way.”

You know Cal would be blushing if only his cheeks weren’t already so rosy.

 

\--

 

Your name is Dirk, you’re sixteen, and fuck yeah, you just got your first job.

You’re still in the orphanage though, but hopefully that’ll change soon – more specifically right after you graduate high school. You two – you and Cal, obviously – didn’t manage to find a good family for yourselves, despite being adopted like six times throughout the years, and honestly? You’re fine with that.

You and Cal are doing just fine on your own.

You hate leaving him alone during the time you’re working, but it’s not like you can bring him to work with you. You do take him to the sewing mistress’ house at night though. The sewing mistress is a polite old lady that has been teaching you, free of charge, how to sew. She’s an old friend of the oldest lady in the house, and you met her after one of the youngest kids ripped Cal’s arm off while playing with him somehow carelessly. You’re a slow learner, but you’re getting there. After only two weeks of her classes you’ve managed to patch up all the holes in your pants and shirts and even in the clothes of your friend and colleagues. The nuns say they’re proud of you.

Honestly, you’re fucking proud of yourself. You’re finally standing on your two feet.

You kiss Cal goodnight every night, and one day, when you kiss him on the lips, he doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You just fall asleep with his head tucked under your chin and a small smile over your lips.

 

\--

 

Your name is Dirk motherfucking Strider, you’re seventeen and you just graduated from high school. You were home schooled in the orphanage, but it still counts, because you have a diploma, and that’s all that actually counts.

As a graduating gift, the sewing mistress offers you a full time job as her personal assistant. She says you’re really good now that you got the hang of it, and soon she’s teaching you how to make trickier outfits, like jackets and pants. You quit your shitty job on the supermarket and you prepare yourself to leave the orphanage any day now.

You pack a single bag only. You don’t have much to keep and the stuff you feel like you won’t need you give away to the other boys in the house. You know how fast they all grow – way too fast, that’s how fast – and you know that they’ll need it a lot more than you.

When December arrives, so does your eighteenth birthday. Miss Lavender meets you on the front porch with an orange file that contains all your personal documents, tears staining her bloodshot eyes. Cal’s on your shoulder, and he says that, despite everything you two went through, he’ll miss her a lot.

You don’t say anything. He knows that you’re going to miss the shit out of her, too.

You drop the bag to the floor and dash towards her, hugging her tightly. She weeps on your shoulder, and yeah, maybe you cry a tear or two as well.

She’s the closest thing to a mom you’ll ever have.

Soon, all the nuns are hugging you, and some kids are howling around your legs while others are screaming and crying from a certain distance. You don’t remember goodbyes to be this sad, but you guess it makes sense.

You move in to the apartment across the sewing mistress’ apartment, on the last floor of the old building she lives in, and it’s absolute _heaven_. What little she pays you is enough to pay rent and the water bill, but there’s still electricity and food to worry about. You decide to go job hunting first thing in the morning. You have your own TV, room, your own bed. Compared to your old room, though, it’s almost like a cubicle, but you can’t complain.

After all, you’re not sharing a space with thirteen other people.

After all, you’re finally _alone_.

You never knew that privacy felt so damn good.

You kiss Cal on the lips before falling asleep, just like you’ve been doing for so long, but this time you’re so happy you unconsciously let it linger. When you pull back, you swear you can see Cal’s cheeks redder than normal. He’s a little dumbstruck, and suddenly, you’re panicking, fidgeting, stuttering. The words don’t come out right. You think you need to apologize, but you don’t really want to, because it didn’t felt wrong. It felt so right you wonder why you never did it before. But you’re worried about Cal. You don’t know if he feels the same way you do, you wonder if he wasn’t okay with you kissing him, like kissing him _for real_ , and you don’t know how on earth you’re going to ask him that.

You’re about to open your mouth to say something when Cal beats you to it.

_When was the last time you masturbated?_

You widen your eyes, feeling your face grow hotter than ever, and before you can answer him, his hand is touching your crotch gently, as if asking for permission. You look down under the covers and feel at loss for words.

You wonder if there are words meant to be said in moments like these.

You come closer to him, nose touching his smooth face, and his mouth opens slightly. You kiss his upper lip, then his bottom, then you’re kissing him open mouthed. At first, you don’t know if you should add tongue to the equation, because fuck, what if Cal’s not cool with it? What if you embarrass him and he never wants to see your ugly face again? But when you tilt your head to fit your lips perfectly with his mouth, he moans. It’s a weak and almost imperceptible sound, but it’s there, you can feel it, you feel it in the tenseness of his body, in the vibration of his plush chest against yours. He’s eradiating the same nervousness and uncertainty you’re feeling, and that’s enough to make you peek your tongue out, to let it slide against the mechanisms on the back of his mouth.

And it doesn’t feel just right; it feels fucking _perfect_.

When you’re both naked, his hand comes again to palm at your now half hard erection, and you wrap your hand around his to help him out, just like you always did with everything. His eyes and mouth are half open, lips glistening with your own saliva, and you swear you can almost feel the ghost of his breath over your chest as you hug him tightly.

 _Dirk..._ he moans, shameless and unabashed, and he repeats it over and over and over again, like a chant, like a song, and god his voice is _exactly_ like music to your ears. He’s the reason you live, the reason you’re sane and well and _happy_. Soon you’re coming undone, moaning his name and spilling your seed over his glove and making a mess of everything, but you barely even care. He doesn’t care about it either. What you do care about though is the fact that Cal is feeling light and nervous and just...

 _Night, Dirk._ He whispers, his voice sweet and gentle and content, and you close his eyes, kissing each eyelid gently before resting your head on the pillow, right above his.

“Night, little man.” You say, holding him as close as physically possible, and you wonder how things could possibly ever get better.

 

\--

 

You never considered this. Not even in your wildest dreams.

Your name is Dirk, you’ve just turned nineteen, and the nun whose shoulder you cried on a year ago is standing in your doorway.

Holding a baby.

“Your mother. Your biological mother, she...” and her voice wavers. Cal’s arms, still wrapped around your shoulders, seem to tighten. He feels your nervousness, your... shock. You never knew your biological mother was still alive. “She showed up at our doorstep a week ago, all bruised up, begging us to take him because she couldn’t. I tried to change her mind, brought her in, but the moment I turned around to fetch a glass of water, she... she disappeared. She ran away, leaving him behind.”

You’re shaking. You somehow realize you’re shaking badly, and Cal tries to shoosh you, but it’s useless. Miss Lavender looks up at you, her now wrinkly eyes filled with sadness.

“He’s your brother, Dirk. Your biological brother. We figured it would be only fair to allow you to decide whether you want to keep him or to let him stay with us.”

Without a word, you reach forward, and Miss Lavender takes the hint. She places the baby on your arms, muttering a “careful with his head”, and you fix him up against your chest.

His platinum blond hair, his fair skin, his chubby baby cheeks. You can see your nose in him, your lips. He’s asleep, but you see a lightly younger version of yourself cradled up in your arms. You wonder what is the color of his eyes.

You think of all the years you spent in the orphanage, the houses you went through, the sadness and desolation when there was only Cal by your side.

This kid has nobody.

Nobody but you and Cal, that is.

“She brought his birth certificate with her.” She explains, and you still don’t look at her. “His name is Dave.”

_Dave._

“Can I really keep him?” you ask, but it’s a stupid question, because just like Cal, you’re damn sure you’re never ever letting Dave go. Not after you’ve held him in your arms, saw his face, felt his warmth and his fluttery heartbeat against your skin. But Miss Lavender, much to your contentment, smiles.

“I’ll come back tomorrow morning with the paperwork.”

And though you’re scared out of your mind, you never felt like you had a real family before this moment.

Somehow, you’re sure things will work out just fine.

You’re sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ;w;


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